A/N: Oooh, nice reviews! That does a heart good to see such supportive feedback. Anyway, just to warn you, I've edited the first chapter again, since there was something fundamentally wrong with the way I'd written Grodin's character. All fixied! Check it out if you like.
Enough rambling; on with the story! Oh, and we're… sort of… getting into some medical things now, so if there are any doctors who happen to read this and you see a mistake, please tell me! Hmn, come to think about it, my technological knowledge probably isn't all that hot either…
Shutting up now.
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II
THERE'S MORE THAN ONE WAY TO RUN
"Oh, God…"
He stared with disbelief at the shattered remains of the satellite, his chest tight with dismay before clenching further with grief. Oh, God, not Peter – not Peter – beside him he heard Miller sink back in his seat, shocked, as the debris coasted slowly apart on the residual wave of weapons fire, scorched metal gently turning over in the cold of space…
Rodney drifted awake, slivers of blue peeking through the thin slits of his eyelids, and his room blurred into view around him, his cheek buried into his pillow as he lay unmoving atop the covers. For a moment he stared blearily, his vision unfocused as he watched the lifeless equipment on the low table beside the bed and the thick bronze-coloured balcony door on the opposite wall. The blue stained-glass of the door seemed dark with the night behind it while the oranges and yellows were faintly illuminated by the thin, circular crystals embedded in rows and columns in the grey, hard-lined walls, serving as lights. He could feel the open space of the veranda beyond his head, through the glass windows and the bronze strip of geometrically-designed wall which separated them.
He let out a breath that relaxed his body and levered himself up with a grunt, the grey blanket still drawn up to the pillow rumpling slightly as he shifted to sit on the side of the low-slung bed. His limbs were numbly weak as though he'd just run a marathon, his jaw aching as though it had been clenched. It was a familiar and unwelcome feeling, as was the tightness of his chest and the lump in his throat.
Elbows resting on his grey-trousered knees, Rodney rubbed his palms gently over his taut-seeming face, shoulders hunched in weary despair as he massaged his eyes. Why? He wondered, his hands trembling against his skin, leaning over the dull crimson floor and gazing despairingly through his fingers at the smooth patch between his spread feet.
Why did that memory have to keep haunting him? Why that one? It wasn't like he'd lost friends before – not like he hadn't failed friends before… he squeezed his eyes shut against the potential tumult of memories, mouth dry as he forced them from his mind.
And yet Abram and Gaul, Dumais and Hayes hadn't stayed with him. Oh, he still remembered, still dreamed, still ran over in his mind what he should've – could've – done, but it had been months since then and now the memories were beginning to fade.
Not like Peter. Not like the vivid images that still assaulted him during his sleeping hours, the guilt that still clutched his belly after waking… during the day he could forget, pretend it hadn't happened and wasn't real, but his dreams knew the truth.
Then why do I get the feeling I'm missing something? He wondered, eyes slitting open to glare at the cool floor as the chill seeped into his feet. For several seconds he pondered the thought, but as the night outside began to fade, casting faint morning sun over the thriving plants resting beneath the canopy of the terrace, he dismissed it and banished the memory. Dreams are the product of an under-worked mind, he told himself sternly, patting his legs absently and lifting his head to look around his room. His eyes automatically flickered over the metal-lined boxes stacked beside the door across from him and the photos hanging on the smooth wall behind him, beside a stone-textured red column emitting light from behind its hard forms. "Yup," he grunted, already running over the work needed to be done, getting up to begin his day as he had begun all others: with the lingering niggle that there was something eluding him.
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Sand sheeted down to the worn floor as the slightly crumbly stone of the wall shifted, the sediment of ten thousand years cascading to the faded grey flagstones. The sandy-red block rasped open, scraping against its neighbours in a tinkling of powder. A clay-covered hand slipped through the thin crack and forced the brick to turn further from the wall with a grind that grazed white lines on the filthy slabs of the tumbledown chamber. Sunlight beamed through the space, sliding unevenly across the grimy floor of the corridor beyond as the opening widened to the point that it could accept a man without trouble.
Wearily Peter slumped against the thick frame, hands pressed to the cooler inside surface of the hidden door as the drying mud coating his sun-browned skin cracked and flaked to the ground. He let his eyes roam unseeingly over the debris-littered floor of the outside chamber, the sunlight illuminating the drifting specks of dirt in the warm, dry air as he caught his breath. For a moment his gaze rested on the vacant entrance, the door long since crumbled in the arid heat and scouring winds, framing the small dunes of sand leaking into the hallway beyond.
He considered returning down the passage to the oasis chamber to add to the roughly drawn clay map that he'd left drying on the outer-edge flagstones, but the thought of braving the hidden dens of the diverse creatures living there was far less appealing than that of exploring the newly discovered chamber. It was bad enough that it was the only room fit for habitation; the city seemed to have been based around the large spring, providing enough water for everyone inside – excluding whatever technology they had to aid them, of course.
Now it was the home of various creatures, mostly small and dangerous, animals that he probably wouldn't even have noticed if he hadn't been forced to survive beside them. Whoever said deserts were lifeless places obviously hadn't been forced to live in one; after his first exhausted night he'd awoken at the patter of frightened mouse-like paws skittering across his leg to find himself having sustained dozens of tiny insect bites at some point before morning.
The rough stone of the door had begun to warm before Peter encouraged his aching muscles to move, the heat sapping his strength even under the semi-shadow of the partly collapsed room. Absently scrubbing his grubby hands on the sun-faded jumpsuit pushed to his waist, he turned towards the darkened steps behind the wall and examined the bricked ceiling which hung uncomfortably low in the narrow space. It obscured the chamber he assumed was below, the sunlight stretching only far enough that he could see the base of the stairs, laid with a differently coloured stone.
Steadying himself against the uneven walls Peter stepped cautiously into the cooler hallway, annoyingly aware of the sun at his back that made his blue shirt cling to him damply. Though he was relatively sure there was nothing hostile down there, he'd learned that desert-dwelling creatures were almost impossible to see unless you knew what to look for.
The good thing about that was if they were camouflaged, usually they weren't poisonous. The poisonous ones could afford to flaunt themselves – they knew nothing smart would want to aggravate them. He'd nearly learned that the hard way.
His shadow blocked out the sunlight and he waited patiently for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, fleetingly wishing the wood of the scrubby, twisted bushes wasn't so dry that it'd burn to a cinder before providing any practical use as a torch. The thought led onto other ones; like the technology he lacked and wished he had, which led onto the thought of Atlantis and whether it was still there…
Don't think like that. He scolded himself mentally and sighed, scrubbing absently at his eyes with a bared forearm, the long sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows. They're alive. He promised himself, even though he had no way of actually knowing; he hadn't found a stargate in the ruins and he knew braving the desert to look for one would've been suicide.
Shaking himself from his fears, Peter finally moved carefully into the warming corridor, his footfalls coming back at him loudly. The air was still and bordering on stuffy, but had more of a metallic taste than anything else. It made him pause, his brow furrowing slightly in thought as he ran carefully through the reasons for it.
There weren't many things that could put that smell in the air; not a tomb, it wasn't quite right for that and the Ancients didn't go in for tombs anyway. He already knew the race in question weren't Ancients, because Ancients had a tendency to write all over the walls and the ruins lacked any evidence of that. Rodney had complained more than once that they seemed to lack for paper or some suitable writing tools, making information susceptible to the wear and tear of weather.
Perhaps a tainted water source. Or perhaps he'd even found the stargate itself... if so, I could dial Atlantis! The thought spurred him onward, the rough, ziggurat-like roof receding behind him as he descended the shallow stairs. The band of red stone set amongst the grey lengthened, stretching out along the base of the wall and showing up dimly in the shadows.
He could feel the hollow echo of a long, low-ceilinged chamber as his shoe made contact with the dusty crimson panel at the foot of the stairs. Instantly there was a hum which ran around the walls and square, dull grey crystals set at intervals into the red-tinted bricks fuzzed to life with a complaining flicker in accompaniment to the coloured edging.
Peter flinched back automatically as the light seared in his dark-accustomed eyes, the heel of his scruffy boot catching on the step. The edge of the rock crumbled as his arm flashed up to shade his face, sand-scoured lines creasing over his bearded face with his wince. He staggered before catching his balance, spare hand stabbing erratically at the air.
It took a moment before his eyes adjusted and he blinked in the familiar, unobtrusive lighting that was so prevalent in Atlantis. Muted white and red illumination bathed a pair of parallel tables heaped with strange, metallic shapes, shining dimly beneath their soft blanket of dust. On the opposite wall were similar figures and draping, gauzy curtains, eerily still after ten thousand years of disuse.
Not a stargate. Moving with curious caution, Peter skirted a heap of devices scattered near the bolted metal leg nearest to him, the air hanging dank and heavy and the dim lighting darkening the beard which stubbled his face – a mark of how long he'd already lived there. The atmosphere was a humid change to the dry air outside, albeit slightly cooler, but Peter was hardly paying attention to the ambience as his clay-flecked fingers brushed over the edges and curves of the machinery with rising excitement. But something nearly as good.
Almost as soon as he'd touched the device it sprang to life, giving him his second shock in as many minutes. A row of blue lights whirred in a continuous motion on the cylindrical surface, the bronze tint shining up easily beneath his contact before dying as his hand jerked back with a start. They still have a power source after all this time, albeit not for long, and the fact that they haven't yet decayed… definitely technology influenced by the Ancients.
Which probably explained the reason why the civilisation was dead; the Wraith didn't tolerate advanced races, and though technology such as this was hardly on par with Atlantis, it was still a threat to the life-sucking aliens.
Unaware of the slight grin that tugged on the corners of his lips and the euphoric sparkle in his brown eyes, Peter worked his way down the table and along the other side, touching devices randomly with excited hands. Some remained still and dead, others lit up and faded soon after, while still others sat like glowing tokens amidst the shrouding dust, waiting to be used. The grin turned into a chuckle, Peter's gaze flickering over the litter with the look of a kid in a candy shop. It was a look that Sheppard had ascribed to all scientists whenever they found something new to play with.
But this was different. This wasn't just finding new equipment and being able to examine it in his leisure, without Rodney or – God forbid – Kavanaugh annexing it for their own purposes. This was a discovery that could get him back to Atlantis.
It isn't quite the same as Ancient technology, Peter noted absentmindedly, leaning over the steel table to follow a stray wire. And much of it seems damaged, but I may be able to jerry-rig a distress beacon out of all this… after that it would only be a matter of finding a stargate. If there was one actually on the planet… but he didn't let himself think about that. Instead he turned around to the table beside him, inattentively brushing his dusty hands on his jumpsuit, still hanging in folds around his waist.
He didn't notice the soft click of an activating device as his fingers scraped past it, a soft green light blinking into the veil of filth as multiple legs uncurled themselves from beneath the base of a half-spherical body.
Peter's foot accidentally kicked a dented box lying in the shadow of the next table, knocking something to the flagstones with a clatter. With a sigh he knelt down to pick it up, glancing about a little ruefully at the disorder as he arranged the array of broken equipment. No laboratory of his would be caught in this state.
The spider-like device lifted itself from its cradle of dust, wires so thin they were invisible feeling the air – feeling the heat signature of a being nearby. Quickly it skittered over the debris and launched itself at Peter, crouched unaware not more than a foot from the scratched edge of the table.
Something landed lightly on his back and Peter moved absently to flick it off – but he was met only with air.
That same 'something' stabbed into the flesh of his back just between his shoulder blades, making Peter grunt in pain and jerk in surprise, dropping an emaciated device for his hand to fly instinctively to the source. He gritted his teeth, the wound pounding, sending waves of pain across his shoulders accompanied by a disturbing warmth that spread over his shirt. His fingers touched something sticky, came away bloody, and Peter looked at the smudges in wary shock as the pain dulled.
His skin prickled uncomfortable with pins and needles, the point of origin reduced to an uncomfortable ache that threatened to erupt into something more. Damn. Should have made sure there were no animals around before I went poking… bloody idiot. He touched the fabric-covered wound again and hissed when it throbbed, pulling back to regard the blood on his hand with a frown. He needed to take care of that first, before he set to his newest task.
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The chamber still retained vestiges of its musty atmosphere, now warmed to the sunlight streaming through the open door and lit to the dull panels in and edging the walls. Dust streaked the area, strewn wherever Peter had rifled through the devices. If he got back to Atlantis, then they could worry about cleaning the room up; for the moment, he was concerned only with making something of use out of all the junk.
It was a day or two later and Peter had set up a section of the worktable for his use, scattered with various improvised tools and the devices spread around him in rumples like a little kid's toys. Seated on a short stack of dented metal crates Peter leaned over a muddle of wires, eyes fixed on his task. His roughened fingers held the cables still, one of the Athosians' lighters held gently in his hand as he soldered the wire ends together with jets of flickering orange energy emitting from the rounded end of the utensil.
His back and neck throbbed, tingles of pins and needles spreading out from the wound that had been a struggle to clean merely because of its position. It was distracting, stabbing sharply every time he moved the wrong way, and it took all of his considerable concentration to ignore the unsettling sensation of something crawling forcibly through his flesh. What worried him more, however, was that soon after he'd been bitten – at least, he assumed it was a bite of some kind, since he could hardly see it himself – his extremities developed a tendency to feel numb, making it difficult to work the delicate technology.
His grip on the wires fumbled and he dropped them to the tabletop with a slap. For a moment he gazed down at them ruefully before resting his head on the back of the hand still palming the lighter, closing his tired eyes with a sigh. He listened to the quiet hum of activated machinery vibrating unobtrusively through the chamber, bringing to mind the similar sound of Atlantis's technology, a noise heard so often in the background it was taken for granted and rarely noticed.
But he'd noticed it. On the first night shift, when he'd volunteered to watch over the city from the control room, unable to sleep for excitement, he'd listened to the soft lap of distant waves against the sprawling piers and the faint, soothing hum of charged crystals. Ever after, he always strained to hear it during the cacophony of the day and missed it when it was absent; but in darkness he was comforted by the sound, accompanied by the murmur of his team's voices, the step of a random scientist and the shift of the relentless ocean. At night, Atlantis had been his.
Now the sound was unnatural only in the fact that it was alone.
Atlantis. He rubbed his forehead against the faint, steady ache behind his temples borne of constant heat, dropping the lighter to brush back his lengthening hair with his palm as he looked blindly down at the scrambled wires. I wonder what everyone's doing right now. Automatically he turned his other wrist to look at his watch and see what time it would be on the great city, but it was long broken, the glass surface cracked and the interior mechanics filled with sand. Rodney and Sheppard are probably arguing with Carson to escape the infirmary, Peter considered, a smile touching his lips fleetingly. More than once Carson had asked him if he couldn't permanently tag them, just to save the irritated doctor the trouble of tracking them down himself. Or in the lab – like Radek would be, perhaps even arguing with Kavanaugh… Doctor Weir would be in her office… Ford's probably getting the mickey taken out of him by the other marines… Bates would be in the control room or the gym, no doubt… he built a picture of Atlantis, filled with the people he knew, his surrogate family performing their duties as only they could.
He refused to acknowledge the image of a destroyed city, even though he could see it all too clearly in his mind's eye: the towers crumbling in wreathes of smoke and sparks, the piers creaking and breaking their restraints, flames casting shadows on the water as the city fell apart and sank to the bottom in pieces…
His eyes focussed on the slim, flat tool he'd just been using, one of the last remnants of his life on Atlantis. Rodney had been dying to figure out how the strange lighters worked but Teyla flatly refused to give hers up; so Peter, partly to tease Rodney and partly out of a similar curiosity, had traded most of his leftover chocolate to an Athosian to get one of his own. He'd intended to hand it to Radek, at least, since most of his own time was focussed on the computer mainframe and not the labs, but discovered it invaluable when it came to repairing their Earth-based technology until the point came that he was loathe to give it up. When the mission to the satellite came it had been the first thing he thought of to take and the only thing that he'd been carrying on his person at the time. Now it was proving just how good the trade had been.
His melancholic reverie was broken by an unfamiliar noise sounding from outside, somewhere in the decrepit paths of the ruins, and instantly his body was charged with wary adrenaline.
The last time he'd heard unknown sounds was on the Wraith ship.
Forgoing the equipment scattered on the desktop, Peter made his way to the steps, skirting the debris littering the dusty floor to emerge tensely from the darkened room. He paused on the threshold, eyes squinted shut against the sunlight that poured through the crumbled fissures in the roof, the heat pressing down on him almost as soon as he'd come out from under the shade. After a moment's thought he set to pushing the heavy door closed, hands pressed to the rough stone and straining muscles making his wound throb. The slab scraped a little along the familiar white lines of its path, but since Peter had cleared much of the sediment it moved fairly quietly before closing entirely with a hollow boom that echoed from within and was barely heard without.
Wincing against the light ache of his head induced by the dazzling sun and the accompanying pound of the bite, flexing his numb fingers, Peter's gaze flickered over the cracks in the stone walls, seeing nothing moving in his limited sight. Carefully he stepped through the room, his footfalls softened by the sand coating the flagstones even as it was cast up in sheets behind him when he reached the thickly blanketed corridor.
Then he heard it again: a jangle, like that of leather against metal, coming from the oasis room and all but drowned out by something else.
Footsteps. Wary footsteps, muffled by sand and the softer clay of the spring's edge.
Cautiously Peter peeked around the arched doorway, ignoring the high, smoothly clay-coated dome that sheltered the sprawling, almost swamp-like oasis. The faded tints that had once probably been a magnificent fresco were chipped and cracked, allowing the sunlight to beam in dust-sparkled intervals over the water. Instead his eyes alighted on the faded wooden cart sitting near the water's edge, its wheel tracks cutting through the mud. Bags and knickknacks dangled on leather cords from the roughly hewn canopy, swaying a little from movement.
A tacked draughthorse lapped eagerly at the off-coloured water, hooves sinking into the edge as it set its thick shoulders against its weight and lipped at the surface. Its shaggy black fetlock hung low over its eyes, thick brown fur unkempt beneath the leather and metal tack. The mud squelched as it shifted its position, ignoring the wagon creaking behind it as its knotted tail flicked reflexively, resting in the thinly dappled shade of a twisted, rough-barked tree nearby.
But the horse was of less interest than the scrawny, bearded man wandering closer, boots soft on the weedy sand and then louder on the cracked flagstones set into the ground around the outer edge of the room. His dark hair hung in bunches around a thin face, thick eyebrows overshadowing narrow eyes. His grimy, sweat-and-dirt-stained clothes were of a like Peter didn't recognise, made of what was originally a cream-coloured material that wrapped around his wrists and waist, the neck gathered in a leather hem that kept it close and out of the way.
What really unnerved the scientist was the slim rod the man held loosely in one hand by a thicker handle that glowed slightly with a blue module, the pointed tip looking wicked. It reminded him of a cattle prod and somehow Peter got the feeling it wasn't just for the horse.
The man paused, shaded eyes staring curiously down at section of smooth clay, and with a sharp pang of shocked realization Peter saw it was his map of the ruins, left untouched since he'd found the junk room.
Damn. Nervously Peter wiped his sweaty hands on the jumpsuit tied at his waist and turned around to return to the hidden chamber, shoes kicking up dust around the hem of his clothes.
The only problem was that a thickset man with thin blonde hair was behind him, glaring at him with beady eyes set in a rugged, square-chinned face. Startled, Peter flinched back with a gasp, his heart rebounding off his ribs before he managed to get a hold of himself. Oh, this is going to be a problem.
"Oi," the stranger rumbled loudly, making Peter wince at the aggravation to his headache. "Looks like there is somethin' here worth gettin'." He raised his own copy of the cattle prod-like utensil threateningly, the shiny grey surface winking in the sunlight and his baggy tunic hanging in folds around his thick elbow. "That way," he ordered in a deep, grating voice, jabbing the prod towards the faded archway.
For a moment Peter eyed the tool, taking note of the sandy terrain and wide, sun-lit corridor, knowing that if he wanted to stand his ground he'd have to hurry before the other joined them. He'd boxed in university and he'd been good at it, so he was hardly defenceless, but against two armed people he didn't like the odds. One at a time, however…
Something must have shown in his eyes and his ready stance, his fists clenching as his determined eyes flickered up to the stranger's challengingly, because before the physicist could complete the decision the prod came up and jabbed viciously at his chest.
Blue energy reminiscent of the Athosian lighters flashed from the tip, crackling over Peter's dusty blue shirt and making him jerk with a painful start; but to his confused consternation the sensation of an electric shock vanished instantly, replaced instead by a burning, crawling pain over his shoulder blades that stole his breath away. Feeling surged momentarily back into his fingers, making them twitch as the pins and needles he'd been trying to ignore spread in a rush over his skin, the original wound throbbing in tandem with the headache that pounded to life.
"God!" Peter swore, gritting his teeth against the pain before it dulled, one hand reaching automatically for the wound to grip his shoulder. Breathing ragged, mouth dry, he met the amused gaze of the stranger with a scowl to hide the fear that twisted his stomach. That isn't a bite! The man's eye flicked to someone behind the physicist and with a sinking heart Peter realized he'd lost his chance. He wasn't a trained fighter; there was no way he could take on the two men together.
"We don't hold back," a thin voice remarked carelessly and Peter instinctively twisted to look over his shoulder at the rangy man behind him, but then hissed as his injury twinged in complaint. "So: this way." The man gestured coldly with his own prod, flicking it with bored negligence in the hot air.
Peter set his jaw grimly, gaze shifting back to glare at the burly man's grotesquely grinning visage before turning in the direction the scrawnier one indicated, his hand dropping from his aching shoulder to his side as he trudged through the yielding sand towards the oasis. Unnoticed by the uncaring traders, blood pinpricked the back of the scientist's shirt, nothing more than spots heralding a greater danger.
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The wagon jolted harshly, threatening to send Peter sprawling into the heap of sacks and tarp-covered junk, secured to the walls with twisted leather cord. The movement made his back ache and head pound, straining the thick rope binding his raw wrists. The canopy was roughly made of thick, unsmoothed wood which seemed to absorb the sun and drown him in hot air, making it difficult to breathe it in. The inner cloth sides fluttered a little with the bump of the cart, but they were closed and the traders didn't seem obliged to lift them to allow any breeze to filter through the outer steel bars, leaving him to sweat in what seemed like his own personal oven. The configuration of the dray made it clear it wasn't just for hauling cargo, but people as well.
The scientist couldn't see outside but guessed that they were travelling over one of the cracked shingle plateaus distantly visible as a shimmering spectre of heat from the sprawling, tumbledown edge of the ruins. He considered the fact that they were headed to another settlement, but the traders didn't quite seem the type to have lived in a barren desert such as this – the only other thing he could think of was that they were headed to a stargate. After all, hadn't Teyla and the Athosians traded across worlds?
The only problem was that he didn't know whether his leaving the world was good or not. If he was right then he'd know where the stargate was, but he'd lose the machinery he'd found in the junk room – and he might not be able to find his way back.
And then the crackle of dry clay beneath wooden wheels turned to the rattle of flagstones before they halted with a shuddering jerk, making the merchandise clatter against the wooden beams of the wagon. Struggling against the splintered floorboards and cluttered goods, Peter shifted closer to the tarp flapping against the outer barred hatch securing the rear, pushing the ragged edge of the grimy material aside to see nothing but an endless, shimmering plateau preceding rolling dunes behind them.
Somewhere to the side he heard a familiar series of humming clunks that made his stomach clench, his breath catching momentarily in his chest with painful remembrance. He swallowed through the nostalgic lump in his throat, willing himself not to think of his duties on Atlantis – not now.
With a hollow roar the stargate Peter couldn't see engaged, casting rippling, blue-tinged light over the red-tinted slate behind the wagon, shimmering over the rusted steel of the bars. With a jerk the wagon began moving again, the clop of the horse's hooves loud on the flagstone as Peter braced himself against the hatch.
This is only my second time through the stargate, he realized randomly before the undulating event horizon whisked him away.
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Jarent was in his threadbare office when the call came from the sentries, seated on his ragged, rush-woven chair before the pock-marked desk. The tabletop was scattered with uneven stacks of paper and various small and valuable commodities, his slim, hand-worn flash-stick lying on top of the clutter.
"Someone returns!" came a rough voice from outside the cloth-covered opening that served as a window, and mousy-haired Jarent idly leaned back in his creaking chair to flip back the tarp with a scarred hand. In the distance was a familiar weathered dray, approaching from the opposite edge of the rocky basin in which the trading camp was situated. It trundled closer along the dusty path, the jungle that spilled over into the gully creeping to the indistinct border of the weedy road leading to the stargate. Under the wavering material canopy of the drivers' seat, two of his slavers were enduring the uncomfortable gait of the old wagon, clothes rustling with the bumpy movements.
Jarent let the cloth fall and the chair to thump back to the rush-covered dirt floor, rising with stiff movements that supported his hawk-like gaze and taut, lined face to exit his office, forgoing the wooden door behind the worn desk which led to the slave booths for the stained cloth one opposite it. Instantly he was struck by the semi-humid air, the swell of endless green foliage reaching for the clear sky around the makeshift station.
Down the dusty, stone-cracked lane to his left was the main street of the thriving little town, where stalls with faded coloured tarps stood overflowing with precious – and often useless – commodities. Jarent's trade, however, was primarily in slaves – or prey, depending on the customer. The rough wooden stage he owned beneath its stretched, bleached hide was behind his office and the slave pens, empty for now, but soon to be crowded with slaves and patrons alike.
Ignoring the bright sun which beat down on him and the sand that settled in his patched leather clothes, Jarent waited for the wagon to pull to a dust-swirling halt before him. Socim leapt down from the wagon, beads clicking slightly from his long hair, and met Jarent's piercing blue gaze with a bored one of his own. "Not much there," he reported, flicking his flash-stick absently from side to side as his associate clambering down from the groaning cart, tying the reins off securely to the splinter of wood intended for that purpose. "Was a long shot anyway – likely picked clean long before now." Socim paused but Jarent didn't answer, waiting patiently for the rest of the report.
"We ain't empty-handed," Arnet grunted, flipping aside the heavy steel bolt of the hatch with a clunk and tugging it open with a screech of rusty hinges. "Oi, git out here," he called to someone inside, flicking away the canvas and eyeing the occupant with undisguised, somewhat amused contempt. There was a defiant pause and Socim sighed impatiently, tapping his tanned shoulder absently with his flash-stick.
Then a figure stumbled wearily out of the back, almost crashing to the ground before Arnet caught him tightly around the upper arm, holding him up. The burly slaver pushed the sun-browned prisoner forward for Jarent's inspection, unheedful of the dark-haired man's noise of complaint. He met Jarent's unblinking examination with a grim expression, brown eyes hard with determination; but behind that Jarent's expert gaze picked out clouded pain. Inwardly the slaver noted that unlike most of the prisoners he'd seen this man was either used to scrutiny or merely possessed enough confidence not to be bothered by it. That could be a problem.
Jarent's eyes flickered over the rest of him, taking in the callused hands, the hardship-lined, bearded face, flushed from too much warmth, and the well-built physique beneath sweat-stained, unfamiliar clothes of blue and red. His experienced stare lingered on the arc of frayed holes on the front of the faded blue shirt, his muscles tight with warning. Wordlessly he reached for the tattered belt cinching his loose, dirt-stained clothes at the waist, flipping open the sharpened flick-knife he tugged from its simple leather sheath. The man tensed, eyes narrowing cautiously and lips parting in the beginnings of an objection, but before he could speak Jarent gripped his tight, V-shaped collar and sliced easily through the thick neckline. With another jerk that made the prisoner wince Jarent viciously ripped the shirt open, shifting the ragged edges aside to reveal a series of shiny oval scars in the shape of a Wraith handprint on his smooth chest.
For a moment Jarent stared, ignoring the cautiously quizzical looks Arnet and Socim were exchanging. Then the slaver's jaw tightened, his movements jerky with restrained apprehension as he shouldered a startled Arnet away from behind the man, tugging down the back of the damp collar to reveal the puffy, tenderly bruised skin of a semi-healed wound, still weeping puss and blood.
"You fools," Jarent spoke at last, his voice low and raspy from the constant wear of dust on his throat. Nervously Arnet glanced at Socim, whose bushy eyebrows had shot skyward in consternation. "He's a runner." Arnet paled, his hazel eyes wide in fear, and Socim cursed behind Jarent's tight, angry tones. "Did it ever occur to you that he was alone in those ruins for a reason! Do you want to bring the Wraith down on us all!" With a growl Jarent turned on his heel, boots thumping on the rock of the basin. "Get rid of him! It's not worth your hides to keep him here. Push him through the stargate to Lohmorar – there was a hiveship there last time I checked. Let them have their sport." He strode furiously back to his office, his rigid back speaking volumes to his underlings as they hurried to do his bidding in swirls of choking dust.
And Peter, head pounding, wound throbbing, dizzy and weak from too much heat, could do nothing but stumble in compliance with their commands.
